Category Archives: local news

Portland … hardly a hellhole

I received an Instagram message overnight from a dear friend in Germany who wanted to know if the city of my birth was the hellhole described by Donald Trump as he ordered the National Guard to hit the streets of the Rose City to curb the crime wave that he says is enveloping the city.

Of course, my friend knew the answer. It isn’t the place that Trump describes. He sent along images of children playing in downtown fountains, of people gathered under the Morrison Bridge for the Saturday Market. It showed food vendors peddling corn dogs and assorted treats.

But yet … Trump wants to declare that Portland has become overwhelmed by gangs, by drug dealers, rapists, murderers, child sex traffickers and various other evil elements he vows to exterminate.

Here’s a brief thumbnail sketch of the city where I came into this world 75 years ago. It’s home to about 650,000 people; it’s the center of a metro area comprising 2.5 million residents. It has a vibrant downtown district. It’s home to a major league soccer team and a National Basketball Association franchise. Every June, it salutes the roses that come into bloom with the annual Rose Festival and the Grand Floral Parade usually draws a crowd of about a million spectators. It’s a beautiful city, with Mount Hood towering on the eastern horizon and what’s left of Mount St. Helens looming to the north.

Yes, it has criminals. So does every city on Earth. It has a homeless problem.

But I’ll be damned if Donald Trump should get away with describing the city where I came of age as some sort of cesspool. Oregon Gov. Tina Kotek has pushed back against Trump deploying the National Guard. She said he has no authority to do so without the permission of the governor. She won’t give him permission.

This guy described by someone recently as an overfed man-baby is off his ever-lovin’ rocker.

Making a personal plea

I did something today I don’t normally do, which isn’t a big deal per se, but it’s big enough of a deal for me to post a brief item on my blog.

U.S. Rep. Keith Self, a Collin County Republican, is going to get a letter from me. It’s not a long tome. I am asking him to rethink his rock-solid support for Donald J. Trump. Self is my congressman. He is a Republican. He also is a good guy who I happen to like personally. He and I are acquainted. We have shared some things we have in common, such as the fact that we both lived in Amarillo. Self grew up there; I got there in January 1995 to advance my career in journalism.

Self, though, stands behind a man who I believe is trampling on the founding fathers’ graves by seeking to seize more power for the presidency than the founders envisioned. The Justice Department indictment of James Comey, the former FBI director, was the final straw for me.

I want Self to rethink his loyalty to Trump. The president is a menace. He poses a dire threat to our very form of government.

Keith Self fought for this country. He is an Army infantry officer, a Ranger and a man with high honor. He is a devoted patriot. Trump has never served his country. Even now he occupies an office that he aims to serve his needs. I am baffled beyond belief that Keith Self, with his background and history of serving the United States of America, would stand so firmly behind a politiician who spits on the memory of those who have served with valor.

I harbor no illusion about whether a single letter from a single constituent is going to do the trick. I’m hoping that others out there will take a moment to let Keith Self know this indisputable fact: He works for you and me … and not for the president of the United States.

Sorry for not engaging

Here it comes … a qualified apology to the occasional critic of this blog who challenges me to engage them in debate, only to be rebuffed by me.

High Plains Blogger used to consume a lot more of my time than it does these days. As I grow older — and as I continue to rebuild my life after my bride’s passing from brain cancer more than two years ago — the blog has become less a part of my life. That’s by design. It’s my design.

I have my share of supporters who tell me they like what I have to say on issues of the day. I also have a number of folks who I know oppose my point of view. On occasion they will challenge me. They demand that I explain myself. If they present data they believe proves me wrong, they insist I say so publicly, or at the very least engage them in debate.

I once posted an item on this blog that declared that I see my posted opinion as my last word on a subject. Therefore, I have no particular need or desire to engage someone in a debate that will result only in boosting my blood pressure. Maybe even theirs, too.

Now that I am well into this next phase of my life, I have even less reason to go toe-to-toe with a political foe. There is no point. I choose only to let my critics have the last word, as I am not afflicted by what I call “last word-itis.”

I have asked on occasion if my foe and I could just “agree to disagree.” Some of them say yes. Some of them want to keep the rhetorical brass knucks handy.

Look, the loss of my dear Kathy Anne taught me a valuable life lesson. It is that life is too damn short to waste time on matters that won’t ever change. I never expect to change anyone’s mind with the posts I deliver on High Plains Blogger. They might think they can change mine.

They would be horribly mistaken. To those who wish I would engage them, I merely want to apologize … but only for staying away from the rough-and-tumble. I won’t apologize for whatever I say.

The beard: Making a comeback

The beard is back … or soon will be once I let a few days pass.

The beard has been something I grow and nurture for six months every year during the autumn and winter months. It comes off around first day of spring. I remain clean-shaven for the spring and summer seasons.

I suspended the beard this past season, choosing to keep my puss hair-free during the coldest months of the year. It might have been a bit of homage to my bride, Kathy Anne, who fought with me every spring when I announced the beard was coming off. She liked my face when I covered it in hair. I lost her in February 2023 to cancer and this past autumn and winter, I chose to forgo the beard because, well, she wasn’t around to enjoy it.

I have made a command decision to bring it back.

Now, my best friends, those who have known me the longest, tell me — and I cannot prove the veracity of this statement — that they can set their calendar on the basis of my facial appearance. When the stubble appears, they know it’s fall. Or so they tell me.

Hey, I won’t dispute it. I’ll just go with it and call it good.

 

Hail to the chief … and to the heroes

I want to share briefly with you an experience I had this past weekend while visiting with a member of my family who came to North Texas to visit my sons, daughter-in-law, granddaughter and me.

To be honest, I was drawn inexorably into making direct comparisons between what I saw over the weekend and what we are experiencing now in real time as events continue to unfold in D.C.

On Saturday, we drove to the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum. My brother-in-law had not seen it yet, but it was my third or fourth visit. I love going there, if only to allow my sappiness to show itself while touring the 9/11 exhibit at the Bush Museum. I visited with one of the docents at the front door when we entered and I told her how much I have grown to admire President Bush in recent years, particularly in light of what his most recent successor has done to denigrate the office he inherited. She nodded in agreement. She gets it.

As we walked through the myriad exhibits, I was struck by the wisdom the museum presented that came from Bush during not only in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks, but in his speaking on behalf of HIV/AIDS research the investments made in the PEPFAR program that the Bush administration created, which Donald Trump wants to dismantle. Bush spoke eloquently about how the nation’s response to 9/11 was not a war “against Islam,” but a war against the terrorists who perverted a great religion.

Bush’s fingerprints can be found on efforts to reform public education during his presidency and on his efforts to enact comprehensive immigration reform.

All told, we had a wonderful experience reliving those turbulent years … and wishing for a return to the wisdom that Bush was capable of exhibiting during difficult times.

The next day we ventured to Arlington to tour the National Medal of Honor Museum. I’ve written already about that experience. I won’t repeat myself.

However, I do want to note that I found the absence of meaningful remarks from the current president about the heroism on display at the Medal of Honor Museum to be striking. He has draped the medal around the necks of several heroes during his terms in office, but in each ceremony I have watched from afar I cannot eradicate from my memory the insults he has hurled at wounded warriors, his refusal to visit American graves in France during the D-Day commemoration, the horrible things he has said about a Gold Star family — Iraqi immigrants — whose son died fighting in Iraq while wearing a U.S. Army uniform.

I know I am not not the only American patriot who thinks this way. It saddens me terribly. However, it did not a single thing to take away the respect, admiration and love I feel toward the 3,600 men who have received the nation’s highest military honor.

I am a proud American patriot who was thrilled to see these exhibits designed to bring out the love I have for my country and for the people who have served it.

9/11: spirit of national unity

We just commemorated another year since the horrific terror attack of 9/11 and today I took a member of my family to tour the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum which honors an important part of that terrible moment.

I’ve told you already that I am a big-league sap when it comes to certain events. The events usually involve profound tragedy and national responses to it. The 9/11 attacks on the Trade Center, the Pentagon and the thwarting of a fourth jetliner aimed for some DC target all bring tears to my eyes.

It’s been 24 years since the attack occurred and every one of those profound moments of resolve, of courage beyond measure of emergency responders, of a president who suddenly took command of the world’s mightiest war machine and the unity displayed in homes across the land … they all fill me with emotion that is hard to control.

This was my fourth visit to the Bush Library and Museum in Dallas. It was my family member’s first visit. He came away feeling proud of the president, who stood tall on the WTC rubble and told the crowd, “The people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.”

As more time passes, the prouder I become of President Bush and the manner in which he handled the national trauma. Did he make mistakes in the pursuit of the mastermind of the attack? Sure. I never doubted for a moment that he put the country first as well as his commitment to protect us from further catastrophic acts of violence.

In its way, the visit today to the Bush exhbit was timed perfectly to coincide with the commemorations we experienced as we remembered the day that changed this country forever.

Indeed, we must never forget what can happen when we let our guard down.

‘Shock’ doesn’t even describe it

A proverbial show of hands will suffice, so here goes: How many of you have received news that was so shocking, so unexpecrted and so full of dread that you could feel the blood drain from your body as you sought to process the news you have just received?

It happened to me. Forty-five years ago — and it was on a Monday morning, in fact — when I got a call at my desk phone at the Oregon City Enterprise-Courier newspaper. On the other end of the call was my father’s boss. He called to tell me that Dad had died the previous evening in a boating accident north of Vancouver, British Columbia.

Dad was 59 years old. He had taken a couple of his customers to Canada on a thank-you fishing trip, thanking them for the business they did with Dad in his role of sales rep for a major appliance disributor in Portland. Four men were in the boat: Dad, the driver/owner of the boat and the two fellows he took with him for some fishing and fellowship.

Dad and the driver didn’t survive the crash. The two guests made it.

In that moment, I recalled only the last words I had said to Dad before he left on that ill-fated trip: “I’ll see you Wednesday.” I was 30 years old. Dad was the first of my parents to go. Mom would pass four years later.

I mention this because even though it’s been 45 years since Dad perishedi in that boat wreck, I still think of him — and of Mom — every day. My sentimental shelf is getting a bit crowded, though, as I also think each day of my bride, Kathy Anne, and the elder of my two younger sisters, both of whom have passed away recently.

One never stops thinking of loved ones who have left this Earth. You learn to manage the pain that occasionally strikes without warning.

You also learn to appreciate and accept that time is relentless. It’s been 45 years since I felt the blood drain from my body, but I am able to recall every moment of that day as if just happened. I recall telling one of my sisters that Dad was gone and listening to her hysteria over the phone. I remember the drive to Mom’s house with my bride and the paralysis I felt as we sat in the driveway while trying to summon the courage to give her the horrible news … and feeling God’s hand on my shoulder as He told me, “I am here for you,” a moment that filled me with the fortitude to break the news to Mom.

These are the moments one never forgets as we make our own journey through this world.

Learning to cope with pain and with loss

I wrote this blog initially in February 2023 for KETR.org, the website for East Texas A&M University’s public radio station. I want to share it here to report that my journey from the darkness of sorrow has progressed nicely.

Here is a general assumption most will agree is true: Almost every human being who’s ever lived will undergo some form of grief or mourning, that they will struggle to recover emotionally from the loss of a loved one.

Another assumption that is generally accepted is that all humans have their own way of processing that grief. They all deal with it differently from, say, their siblings or their parents or the aunts and uncles or their best friends.

I am going through it myself. A little more than one month ago my wife of 51 years passed away from a savage form of brain cancer. You’ve heard of glioblastoma, yes? It has taken the lives of notable politicians, such as U.S. Sens. John McCain and Ted Kennedy, as well as Beau Biden, the elder son of President Joe Biden.

That it struck Kathy Anne down so rapidly and with such brutality only has worsened the grief I am feeling at this moment. We took her to the ER on Dec. 26, where the doctors informed us she had a mass in her brain. A surgeon took some of it out the next day. Kathy Anne was preparing for radiation and chemotherapy treatment when, on Jan. 26, she suffered a grand mal seizure … from which she never recovered. She passed away on Feb. 3.

Here is another truth: Anyone who endures such loss must take comfort in this bit of truth: No one is alone in their struggle; others have gone through it before and for as long as human beings exist there will be many more who will suffer the immense pain far into the future.

Does any of that lessen the pain in real time? Are we supposed to take that knowledge and then pass it off as something that will just go away – like a common cold or a headache? Not a chance.

They write books about grief and mourning. The world is full of experts who profess to know how they have dealt with it and they impart knowledge to the rest of the world based on their own experience.

Megan Devine is one such “expert” on grief. She suffered a horrible loss when her partner, a fellow named Matt, drowned. Devine holds a master’s degree in psychology and has written a book titled “It’s OK That You’re Not OK.”

She writes: “We all want to talk about our pain. We all carry stories that need acknowledgement. But right now? Right now, when you are in pain, when your loss is primary and powerful? That is not the time for a two-way, give-and-take discussion about the losses we all sustain. Grief comparison and shared grief stories do not bring you comfort. Of course they don’t.”

I know of which she writes. Friends and family members want to say the correct words, except that when they tell you that they “know how you feel,” they really don’t know. They cannot get into the heads or the hearts of the aggrieved. Those who can either are clairvoyant or they possess some unknown super-human power that is exclusive to them only.

Nick Patras is head of counseling at Texas A&M University-Commerce; Patras earned his doctorate in counselor education. He has seen grief and mourning up close, first as an employee in the funeral industry and then as a counselor at TAMUC.

“Our focus here is on the students,” Patras said, explaining that college students must deal with the “death of a grandparent, a parent or even the death by suicide of friends. These students have to navigate their way through the mourning process.”

Grief and mourning, Patras said, “are unique to each individual. Their level of grief will depend on the level of the relationship with the individual they are mourning.”

Students, he said, also occasionally have to deal with a rather unique form of mourning. “Sometimes students who are on academic probation must deal with the loss of their educational and career aspirations,” Patras said. “Students come here and enroll in pre-med, or pre-vet or pre-nursing,” he said, “and then they see their academic potential taken away. They decide that ‘This just isn’t for me.’ Then they see their hopes and dreams are derailed. Many students then go into a form of mourning over that loss, too.”

We all have heard of the various “stages of grief.” They remain a mystery to many of us who are going through it. My own stages deal mostly with the intensity and frequency of emotion that pours forth unexpectedly. It comes without warning, although it is most common when the discussion turns to Kathy Anne. It is getting easier with each day – or maybe two – to discuss life with her without blubbering.

One piece of advice that is worth retaining is to “live each day as if it’s your final day.” Yes. I’ll take that advice. Take nothing for granted and do not allow the little irritations to get you down. It’s OK to burst out with anger, but then let it disappear.

But as we trudge on through the beginning of the rest of our life it becomes easier to avoid even the angry bursts. Honest to goodness … it’s true!

Devine writes: “The way to live inside of grief is not by removing pain, but by doing what we can to reduce suffering. Knowing the difference between pain and suffering can help you understand what thing can be changed and what things simply need your love and attention.”

Devine devotes a section of Chapter 7 to the difference between pain and suffering, noting: “Pain is pure and needs support rather than solutions, but suffering is different. Suffering can be fixed, or at least significantly reduced.” Pain, she implies, remains in some form virtually for as long as we live.

Kenneth Haugk founded Stephen Ministries after his wife died in 2002 of ovarian cancer. He is a pastor and a clinical psychologist who also has written a booklet, “A Time to Grieve.”

In the book, he cites the “Three Ns” of grief. He calls it “normal, natural” and “necessary.” He writes, “(S)ometimes people still feel pressured not to grieve. The message they receive is that grief is optional, abnormal, or even a sign of weakness. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Grief is a normal, natural and necessary process.” Haugk implores us to “give yourself permission to grieve.”

I have no particular need to grant myself “permission” to grieve. It comes naturally and easily.

The only times I “apologize” is when I cannot complete a sentence while speaking of Kathy Anne. The response always has been in the weeks since her passing that “It’s OK. Take your time. I get it.” The understanding from friends is most appreciated and, indeed, these words expressing that appreciation seem so inadequate.

Feb. 3, 2023 was – without a doubt – the worst day of my life. I watched my bride slip away. The days that come along will be better than the previous days. President Biden – who lost his first wife and infant daughter in an auto accident in 1972, and then his grown son to glioblastoma in 2015 – tells us that one day we will smile when we think of those we have lost.

I know that day is out there.

The triumph over grief and mourning, Patras said, occurs when someone can “come to grips with the new reality and whether that new reality makes sense. It’s all about making sense of that new reality.”

It’s good to rely on the wisdom of those who have experienced deep emotional pain. As Megan Devine writes: “No one can enter the deepest heart of grief. We here, even the ones who know this magnitude of pain – we are not there with you inside your deepest grief. That intimacy is yours alone.

“But together, we recognize each other and bow to the pain we see. Our hearts have held great, great sorrow. Through that pain, we can be there for each other. As our words knock on the doors of each other’s hearts, we become way stations for each other.

“The truth is, also: you are not alone.”I wrote this blog initially in February 2023 for KETR.org, the website for East Texas A&M University’s public radio station. I want to share it here to report that my journey from the darkness of sorrow has progressed nicely.

Not used to humidity … just expecting it

My introduction to Texas’s fascinating climate came in the spring of 1984, when I moved to Beaumont to take a job at the Beaumont Enterprise newspaper.

It took no time at all for the seasonal humidity to settle in. I informed my wife of that in a phone call to her in Oregon, where she stayed behind for a time to sell our house. To be candid, once we went through a summer or two of Gulf Coast heat/humidity, we all — our sons included — learned to expect the stifling temperature and the energy-sapping humidity. None of us ever got used to it.

Then we moved to Amarillo in 1995. The weather in the Panhandle was as unpredicatable in the spring as the Gulf Coast. It also was more temperate. Cooler in the morning and evening. The elevation of Amarillo, at 3,676 feet above sea level, had something to do with it. Much more pleasant. During the summer days? Still damn hot! But, hey … it was a dry heat, y’know?

Then we moved to Princeton in 2019. More humid again. Not like the coast, but stickier than the Panhandle.

My mantra now is as it was when I first got here 41 years ago. I have learned only to expect the humidity. I don’t like it, but as my dear old Dad would tell me when I bitched as a boy about the rain in Portland: Go talk to God!

Growth explosion: brand new to me

I have lived a long life and I intend to keep living it, but I want to take a walk back briefly through the communities I once called home and explain why my current hometown is so different.

I was born in Portland, Ore., a city that seemed stuck on a certain population of about 375,000 people through the 1950s and 1960s. The Army called me into active duty in 1968 and I returned to Portland, where the population stayed more or less the same through the 1970s and much of the 1980s. My career then summoned my family and me to Beaumont, Texas, a nice city to be sure, but one trapped in the era of “white flight” of residents to the suburbs. The population of Beaumont declined during our nearly 11 years on the Gulf Coast, falling from about 120,000 residents to around 115,000. Opportunity knocked again in 1995 and my wife and I moved to Amarillo, way up yonder in the Panhandle. The city enjoyed slow, but steady growth during our 23 years there. The city grew from about 180,000 residents to just less than 200,000. In 2019, I was retired from daily journalism and Kathy Anne and I moved to Princeton, Texas, a Dallas suburb about 25 miles northeast of Dallas. Then it came, a population explosion the likes of which I never had experienced. We bought our home at the right time, securing a loan for a ridiculously low interest rate. New residents came pouring into our city. The population exploded from 6,800 residents in 2010 to 17,027 in 2020. Today the city estimates the city is home to 40,000 residents. Forty thousand people now call Princeton home! That number is continuing to explode. The city council has invoked a ban on residential construction permits, but it must honor the permits already granted and the housing construction already underway. I am filled with anxious anticipation as Princeton grapples with this growth. Texas highway planners have big projects set for U.S. 380. City public works crews have to install new water and sewer lines. Police and fire departments need to hire more personnel. The school system is building campuses as quickly as it can but they are being overwhelmed by new students pouring into the district. The city desperately needs more commercial development to serve the thousands of new residents who are moving here. Those of us who already are here must watch as the city grapples with solutions to the “problem” officials face. How to cope with the tide of people who realize what many of us knew all along, that Princeton is a nice place to call home. City Hall’s challenge is to maintain Princeton’s desirability.